


The Waiting Days

by priggishbitch



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, I did my best, POV Sansa Stark, Protective Sandor Clegane, Sandor Clegane Needs a Hug, Sandor Clegane Swears, Sandor Stark - Freeform, Sansa Stark - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23571751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/priggishbitch/pseuds/priggishbitch
Summary: I'm bad at descriptions so roll with it.Sansa decided to leave with Sandor during the Blackwater and he's been protecting her ever since. Their days have fallen into a sort of routine as they hide in the woods with the exception of one or two or seven. The worst days should probably be scary, but she's secretly started to enjoy them just a bit. What can she say? Maybe her father knew her better than she knew herself.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	The Waiting Days

**Author's Note:**

> i just had a thing stuck in my head that i wrote down on my phone so if any of it is misspelled or has bad grammar let me know. i've got two other (abandoned) fics that I plan on finishing in the coming days so no one judge me for writing something new when i let my others lie there for like a YEAR. thanks for reading it. feel free to share your opinions on my poor late night writing. just know that I Tried My Best.

These days were always the worst. The Waiting Days, I called them in my head. The days when Sandor was the most paranoid and I wasn't truly allowed to move, let alone whisper my usual rapid-fire questions at him. Days when Sandor heard a stick crack in the woods or an animal crunch a leaf in the distance, or when a stranger crossed our paths and looked at us a little too close for comfort.  
  
At least I'd managed to stop him killing all of those wary travelers, though that was a minor comfort at best. What if he was right, and leaving them alive was dangerous? He thought that my prim sensibilities were going to be what got both of our heads chopped off, or worse, at the hands of his beastly brother. He had admitted to me, once, and only once, that that was who he was afraid was searching for us. His own brother, the only thing he feared more than the fire itself, though he wouldn't admit that.  
  
Sandor Clegane put on a big bluster when it came to his brother, which is how I knew he was scared of him. I'd been trying to suss out whether or not he had any mortal fears besides fire.  
  
"Are you afraid of the dark?" He managed a snort.  
  
"Not much scarier in the dark than me, Little Bird." The muscle in his burned cheek twitched almost imperceptibly, that was as close to laughing at me he could get.  
  
"What about spiders, then?" I'd asked, "I absolutely detest spiders. Creepy, crawly little things with far too many legs." Another snort.  
  
"Well, I know you're scared of fire." He scowled at me, well practiced and menacing.  
  
"That's enough now. No more questions tonight. Sleep." He rolled off his side, away from me and onto his back. I stared at him still, wondering how much courage I had in myself. I was fairly small, after all, Sandor always called me 'slip of a thing', told me I had no meat on my frail little bones. _Little_ Bird. Maybe courage wasn't measured by size, I decided.  
  
"What about your brother?" It felt like the silence might choke me where I lay, "Are you afraid of him?"  
  
"That's the stupidest fucking question you've ever asked me." It came out of his mouth as a growl, I could feel his anger in the air. I had poked the bear one too many times. "Of course I'm not fucking scared of my brother. I'm going to be the one to kill the giant, stupid fucker. Me. He should be scared of me." He let out a half shout, half grunt and sat up, spitting into the dirt. He stalked into the forest and I hadn't seen him again until I woke up the next morning.  
  
Though we never talked about that question in particular again, he hadn't stopped me from asking, and I hadn't been inclined to stop. Questions about his parents, about where he lived, what his life had been like under Tywin when he was still a boy, where he'd traveled. I'd asked his favorite color once, he said he'd never had time much to think about prancy little things like favorite colors. Though he'd mulled that for a bit, looking at me occasionally and then directly into my eyes before saying, "Maybe blue."  
  
I asked questions about Stranger, and when Sandor had acquired him. Occasionally, he would ask a few questions in return about the north and my childhood, both of which seemed so distant to me that it was painful to think on. But mostly he just accommodated my need for sound, my need for something to think about beside my impending death and the horrors that awaited me at the hands of the king or his men.  
  
These days, though, were the worst. In the beginning, when he was feeling overly paranoid he would clap a hand over my mouth and fix me with the worst kind of glare, the one where he let all of his anger and resentment come in at his eyes. He'd looked like he hated me just for being alive, just for existing, but eventually he explained. Then all it took was a gentle shushing as he pulled me down from my well worn place on the saddle and I knew.  
  
I knew that there would be no talking, no fire, no comfortable companionship. I knew the night would be us, silent in the dark, heart thumping so loud I was afraid it would give our secluded spot in the woods away, miles and miles from the road.

While I wouldn't trade the normal days, the days of endless chatter, I did get a small piece of pleasure. Other days, I slept on the hard ground, more than an arms length away from Sandor. But on the Waiting Days... on the Waiting Days, he kept me close by. One arm slung over me, keeping me wrapped in a warm cocoon. I'd never felt so safe, not a day in my life. Not curled in father's arms. Not safe in my room at Winterfell. Nothing could touch me here. No one would ever be able to hurt me.  
  
I knew in those moments, on the Waiting Days, that he would die to protect me, fight a thousand men to keep me safe. He would face what remained of my family, with his scars and crimes and all, to return me to my home. I was safe here, in the arms of one of the most dangerous, most gentle men in all of Westeros. Maybe he rolled his eyes when I asked stupid questions, but he answered them regardless. Maybe he stormed off when I offended him, but he always came back. Maybe I was small, and weak, and in the way of his escape, but he protected me.  
  
On the Waiting Days my father's kind face came to me, his words echoing in my head. Brave and gentle and strong. Maybe I did want someone brave and gentle and strong after all.


End file.
